Page 54 of A Winter’s Romance
T he breakfast was as delicious as Mr. Fortescue had envisioned. The coffee was hot, the eggs perfect, the bacon crisp at the edges and the rolls warm. He ate two from the basket and had to restrain himself from taking another.
“These are wonderful,” he said. “Did you make them?”
“Yes, or rather, Mary made the dough and put it in the larder before she left. I put it out to rise by the hearth overnight. All I had to do was punch it down, knead it again and let it rise a second time before baking. As I said, Wilf was a great help. He dealt with the fires while I did the rolls. There’s nothing better than warm bread, is there? Please help yourself. There are more in the kitchen.”
He broke down and took a third roll, noticing, however, that Elisabeth ate only sparingly: only one egg to his two and one rasher of bacon to his three. He wondered to what extent he and Wilf were literally eating into her budget. Should he offer her money? After all, if they had stayed at an inn, he would have paid his shot. But every feeling rebelled at the idea. He didn’t know what to do.
They had finished breakfast and Mr. Fortescue was staring into the fire, still wondering what to do about paying Elisabeth, when a knock came at the door. It was the wheelwright. He was on his way to pick up the broken-down phaeton. He’d decided to get it early and hopefully work on it after dinner. The loss of his day off was well worth the price he’d been promised for an early completion of the job, and he wanted to demonstrate his keenness to his customer.
Mr. Fortescue declared he’d go with him. A good walk would help him mull over his knotty problem. He shrugged on his caped coat and with Wilf trying to keep up with his long strides, walked back to where they had left the mangled phaeton.
Elisabeth was glad of the opportunity to use her bedroom to wash and change. She smiled at Mr. Fortescue’s attempts to make the bed, and was torn between re-making it and leaving it alone. In the end, she left it, not wanting her visitor to think his work unsatisfactory.
Persuading herself that one should look one’s best on Christmas Day, and refusing to admit she was doing it for Mr. Fortescue’s sake, she put on the best of her day dresses, or at least, the one of her mother’s gowns she thought she had most successfully altered. Luckily, she and her mother were much of a size, and the gown fit her well. She was aware the current mode was for much narrower skirts falling from beneath the bosom, with no waist to speak of, but she was an indifferent seamstress and her work had been limited to taking some of the fullness out of the voluminous skirts that were in style when her mother had bought them. So the gown still fit to the waist and, with its full sleeves, it was quite unlike those in the Mode Illustrées . But any other modification was beyond her capacities.
She had no full-length mirror in the house, and could not see how well, in fact, the style became her. The gown showed her trim waist and shapely bosom and the fine deep red wool set off the russet tints of her brown curls. She was going to confine her hair in the braids she usually wore wrapped in bands around her head, but, once again using Christmas Day as an excuse, decided to tie it up with a ribbon. She had bought the ribbon in the summer from an itinerant peddler because it was precisely the same color as her gown, but she’d never before worn it. Knowing her heavy hair had a will of its own, she anchored the topknot with several pins and hoped it would hold.
She had just finished her toilette when a knock came at the door. She sighed in irritation. It must be the curate. He had said he would be coming at two o’clock but was evidently too eager to wait. She was glad her father was still in his room and would not be available for the few words Mr. Pounds had so confidently expected. She took another quick look in the mirror, tucked away an errant curl and went downstairs to answer the door.
To her astonishment, on the doorstep stood not Mr. Pounds, but the young woman who had called Mr. Fortescue darling the night before.
“Mi…Miss…” stammered Elisabeth, feeling the woman’s eyes run up and down her body.
“Brookstone. Anthea Brookstone.” The young woman didn’t extend her hand or offer any greeting, but simply stood, obviously waiting to be invited in.
“Ah, yes. Please come in, Miss Brookstone.” Elisabeth stood back and allowed the visitor to push past her.
She was wearing a very modish pink pelisse and matching bonnet. The fact that it was entirely unsuitable for the season and the country setting did not prevent her from looking very pretty. Elisabeth, who just a few moments before had been quite pleased with her appearance, suddenly felt unstylish and dowdy.
“Is Lord Northney here?” enquired the visitor haughtily.
“Who?” Elisabeth felt stupid. Who was Lord Northney and why should he be there?
“Lord Northney. He told me last night he was staying here.”
“The only person staying here is Mr. Fortescue. Well, and his tiger, Wilf.”
“Yes, exactly, James Fortescue, the Earl of Northney. Is he here?”
“Mr. Fortescue is the Earl of Northney?” The scales fell from Elisabeth’s eyes. So that’s why he seemed so very superior, so accustomed to command. He was a Lord! Suddenly, she was very angry. Why hadn’t he told her? Did he think she was too inferior to even be told his title?
“Of course.” Anthea Brookstone’s voice cut through her tumbled thoughts. “Well? Is he here? Either he is or he isn’t. The answer can’t require so much thought!”
“No, he is not,” replied Elisabeth curtly. “He went to supervise the loading of his broken-down phaeton. If you didn’t pass him with the wheelwright on your way through the village, he must be still up there, or perhaps by now on his way back. If you walk up the road you will probably run into him.”
She opened the door and all but pushed Anthea outside.
That lady stood looking with astonishment at the door closing behind her. Why, one could almost imagine that Miss Wilberforce, in her out-of-date gown and tumbling down hair, had wanted to get rid of her. What on earth had made James imagine he owed her and her father anything? She was nothing but an ill-bred, ignorant country girl. She hadn’t even offered her any refreshment. Not that she would have taken it in a place like that – it looked as if they lived and dined all in one room – but it should have been offered. Really, the lower classes didn’t know their place these days!
Anthea stalked back to her gig where she had told her maid to wait. She hadn’t wanted her snooping on her imagined tête à tête with James. She climbed in without a word, took the up the reins and clicked the horse into a trot. They hadn’t gone more than a few hundred yards when she saw them: the wheelwright leading a huge carthorse pulling a long, low trailer on which a high-perch phaeton lay on its side, and walking next to him, James Fortescue, Earl of Northney. A small person was trotting along behind him, giving shrill commands to the wheelwright to watch what he were a-doin’ and not break ‘is lordship’s phae’on any more than it were broke already.
She drew the gig to a halt as they came abreast of her. “James!” she said, “The girl told me you were here. I’ve come to pick you up.”